Emails from Darla to Lindsey
by Freelance Muse
Summary: Two emails from Darla to Lindsey, CC to Lilah. She talks about hell, reminisces about time with Angelus, goes into her past a little, a tryst she had with Angelus. The dates aren't right, but i am alright with that. To Whedon and Greenwalt be the glory.
1. Email one

I don't think Holland can use this anymore :). Maybe you can tuck it

away in my file, Counselor McDonald.

Fwd: -----Original Message-----

From: Darla Thursday, January 06, 2005 6:52 PM

To: Holland Manners

CC: For the files

Cute of you to set me up my own little email address. What an inane thing. Email. It lacks the personal touch I like so much. So much is lost in email. It beckons to be short, concise, to fit the parameters of an interoffice memo. It's silly. But really Holland, how could you ask me to stop and reflect? You know what I am, that I can't. I spent too long having no reflection. This is not something I could do now, even if you'd asked during that week I spent in Lindsey's office. My mind is quiet, or it's beating against the bars of this

cage. 'We have facts, timelines, but not everything, and we were hoping that you could maybe fill the blanks.' For one thing, Wolfram and Hart's blanks aren't blanks, they are chasms. Abyssal voids. Like hell. Hell to me anyway-- when I ended at the hand of my darling boy, and there was no time, no place, no blood, no games, no dresses. Just me, alone, disembodied in the agony of nothingness. Detached.

Not what I expected the last time I was on my deathbed. When I had a long 38 days to lay there and think about the coming punishment for my sins. I knew full well that harlots went to hell. It was a downward backwards purgatory, I think, that convalescence. I thought about all of the pretty things I'd collected, surrounded myself with, spoils from doing ugly things with ugly men. Those things would outlive me, the ugly men, and the pretty things. Now, I was ugly too. Paler then than required by fashion, lesions on my skin, festering. The powder was gone from my hair, but since I hadn't eaten or gotten up it was ragged, unhealthy and tangled. And dry. Those last weeks, I couldn't sleep, and every time I summoned the strength to roll over I heard it crinkle. It was brittle. It sounded like my bones would in my grave in an earthquake. Or so I thought.

Then the Master came and I joined the Order of Aurelius (you'll want to cross-reference that). He dubbed me Darla, and my old name died then. I didn't miss it, whatever it was. There was joy. I was so happy to be beautiful again, to have nothing threaten to outlive me, porcelain or flesh. I was delighted to end lives for our cause. It was a purpose, his grand plan and I liked that, for a while, having directives. But ultimately, it was boring. All that waiting, and lurking. We waited and lurked in Europe, and in Africa. It must have

been about fifty years before I was tired of it. But I was not an ingrate, so I stayed with him, and found my fun when I had time and I had lots of fun. Lots of victims. The men were so delectable. They always fought once they realized what I was, didn't faint and give up like the women. They always felt so betrayed, by god, by the world, for letting a little woman take them. When I told the Master about them, he'd call me Beauty and the Beast. He didn't mind my indiscretions, because I was so dear to him. I think he understood that I loved being so much more alive than that nameless whore had been. My life was everything I could have hoped for. But I grew listless, finally, and bored with just having my new father as a peer. It had been almost 100 years before I took following some of the more handsome men, thinking about their suitability. Dozens of let me down one way or another. Not enough fight. Or no panache. Or no sense of aesthetics. One had a face that promised he knew something about cruelty. But he didn't, so I took his head.

I stumbled on Him then. Rather he stumbled around that Galway tavern and I fell in love. He was a magnificent beast even alive. He had a certain style, and it looked effortless from him to carry that height of his. He was even well dressed. He brawled with abandon. He had a mean fire of self-loathing that burned him from the inside. He was perfect. Weaknesses I could manage, Strengths I could strengthen. I knew he was what I'd been waiting for. I took him, and we were taken with each other. As you already know until the gypsies ripped him from me. I took my vengeance on them, with the help of the children- Spike and Drusilla, they had a portion of his cruelty, and some flair of their own, but none of his class, none of his brilliance or self possession. So after a time, I left them too. The Master was still around, and he welcomed me back with open arms. I was just biding my time, until somehow Angelus came back. Or I found a suitable replacement. I got Angel's stake instead.

You know the recent history since you orchestrated it. I can look in a mirror now. I look alive. My lips are flushed. My cheeks can blush. If I use the right shampoo and conditioner, my hair is almost as golden as it was before. And soon, Angelus and I will start our next round.

If this is not what you were looking for, not detailed enough, ask me again when I have more time. When Angelus is back for good maybe, and we have returned from a long trip to Romania. I think we both know Wolfram and Hart will still be around then, even if you are not.


	2. Email two

From: Darla Thursday, February 1, 2005 9:47 AM

To: 'Lindsey McDonald', 'Lilah Morgan'

RE: More of my story

I changed my mind, I guess, or it could just be that I am bored. Daylight lasts far too long in LA, even in the winter. Here is my story. Or parts of it. What I wanted to tell you was just one part, the rest is a vehicle to get there. It is my favorite memory of your special project.

So many things were discarded from memory when I died before. They just were no longer important. When one has no soul it is a burden to carry such cumbersome--such human things along. Guilt, longing, and human pain just have no place. The new memories, each new sensation is indescribably more vivid than anything from one's human life. Mortality is trivial to a true vampire, the mortality of our victims and of our prior selves. Despite that, I suppose some things stayed by chance: random bits conjured to mind by people or events after I died. I don't remember my parent's names or my own, but I remember that of an ancestor. Or maybe I am just lying to myself and to everyone else when I say that I don't remember, just to simplify things. Keeping the tawdry memories far away on purpose. Either way it doesn't matter.

When my heart beat before—so long ago, I remember that my ancestry was mostly French. A mere 300 years before my birth my forefathers had packed up their things and decided to be paupers in England. Shame and pride and other things that matter to those concerned with their fleeting human appearances fueled the flight. Apparently my forebear, Clement D'hiver thought that his Vicomte father should suddenly acknowledge him, the bastard son,though no one in history ever had, merely because he was the firstborn. There was always a placard—an uneven, unsightly, and unshapely heavily varnished piece of wood that was our sole heirloom. It read: The D'hiver line is gently bred, forget it not. The stupid thing should have been burned for warmth in many a cold hearth through the generations. As a silly child, I stole the stupid thing from my mother's house when I decided to leave to make myself a princess.

My parents had been in and out of debtor's prison, my mother told me, until they moved to the prison colony of Georgia. I was born to them there, on the farm the Crown had given them to get them out of England, shortly thereafter. I have a vague memory of my drunken father making claims for credit saying that he was noble and would never let a debt go unpaid. What a ludicrous claim, by our time that disputed blood was thinner than water. I remember couldn't stand the squalor of having to sleep next to chickens. I ran away when I was fourteen. I took my clothes and that stupid piece of wood and imagined I would be discovered by a prince and go away to Europe to live in a grand palace. Some days later, and I found myself in Virginia. After only a few nights of hunger and cold I found work cleaning at a house of ill repute. Mme. Black's parlor was not in a proper town, but it met the extramarital needs of men, and women for miles around. I did not spend much time cleaning before the wretched woman got enough requests for me to put me in one of the dresses someone else had gotten too fat for, let me bathe in rose scented water and lie on my back. The princess died there, on that first night.

But it was alright, because I loved having money. I wasn't bitter because I was no longer poor. Madame Black took an obscene percentage, but being able to buy anything at all was amazing for me. I loved getting dressed each day and wearing pretty things. Silk, lace, satin, velvet, in every color. Gold trimmed slippers. Shining paste jewelry.

I worked for her until I managed to find something better for myself. I worked harder than the other girls, and put pride firmly away. I knew when to smile sweetly, which promises to make. I had no shame. Promises, pride and shame meant nothing to me. Like titles. Merchants paid as well as plantation owners as did theoccasionalvisiting gentry. So well did I maneuver myself that I found myself making house calls to one promising patron. He was childless and had no wife, though he was very old. When he died, I was only nineteen, but he left his home to me. I took my clientéle with me, and they would sometimes refer friends to me, invite me to parties, small ones of course, where only men and slaves were present. So I prospered. I had every possession I wanted. I could have written _120 more days of Sodom_. My heart was never in it but of course that never mattered to the men. And I had my life on my own terms. Everything else be damned, like me. There was only one man I did not charge, and he was one of my slaves. I am certain he caught his death from me, so I guess he actually paid dearly, with his life. I never loved a single person in my human life. Not one. Love was an empty word. One I heard often, but meaningless, nonetheless…

I knew devotion only after my death. I learned that from the Master, the only being I was ever grateful to. As for you, Lindsey, and your compatriots at Wolfram and Hart, I am glad to be back, but grateful, not yet. That gratitude, this gladness pales in comparison to what I felt for my chosen companion. I learned the depths of passion from Angelus. There might have been love too, but I am the wrong person to ask, as I have no way to recognize it. We lived life on my terms once again.

Angelus was my champion, my bard. I taught him all of the games. I opened up his senses to him. I loved to bring him presents, and he loved to have me watch. His cruelty was poetry. I was his muse. We made everywhere we went our kingdom, and I was queen. He'd love to show me his conquests, his kills. He'd demonstrate the most ardent displays of torture. I remember one night, when he equaled, or perhaps surpassed my own lust. It is one of my favorite memories, maybe why I hated him so much once they changed him. It is definitely why I want him back now that he is away from that girl.

The night before I'd asked for his company. I was having some final alterations made on a new dress. The dressmaker kept his shop open just for me, and the two of us stood behind a screen from Angelus as he did his work.

"Darla, what is it you have in mind? If it's just errands and gowns you can see to it yourself, can you not?"

The dressmaker looked up from the hem he was pinning to see my reaction. I winked at him and the silly man pricked his finger.

"Careful you don't get that on the silk, you wouldn't want to excite my darling boy."

I could feel Angelus' muscles taughten like a whip-crack as the smell of blood reached him. Impatience sharpened his voice.

"I am hungry love… and I'd like to take in the convent," he paused, probably licking his lips, but he remembered himself, "I'll be wanting to see their relics and stained glass."

The dressmaker was just done and left me to change on my own behind the screen. He went into the little parlor to put his tools away, and I know Angelus would have killed him, if I did not answer him in a timely fashion. "Darling, since Mr. Markham is kind enough to finish my gown tonight, the least we can do is not rush him anymore. He'll have it done tomorrow."

I heard Angelus walk toward the door. I finished dressing at a superhuman speed and approached him. I loved him when he was hungry, it was so delicious to make him wait. He took my hand and I let him rush me the short space to the door, and when he pushed it open: "Love," I held up the silk gown--all pink and ribbons, "he won't get much done if I take it with me." I disengaged myself and hung it up on a mannequin, taking great pains to get all of the wrinkles out of the fabric. Angelus was furious, but he still took the time to glare at me before he stalked outside.

I did not hurry when I went outside, I knew he would not be too far away. I did not see him immediately when I went out, and I wondered if I had pushed him a little too far. I reached the corner and turned away from his convent. As I walked past an alley, I'd just thought, 'Probably not.' At that very instant, I was reminded just how fast and strong he was because he jerked me forcefully into the alley. Had I been mortal I would have been hurt, if not by the pull then by the force with which he pressed me close to him, he glared down at me, and a few strands of his hair strayed around his face. I smiled, unable to help myself. This was the creature I had ripped from mortality. This storm of flesh and feeling.

"Darla, why do you… what are you playing at?" He mastered himself, stopped that slight tremble at his lower lip, "I am half-starved, I know you can see it." I looked at him then, as if studying his face, his eyes were wild, his face a little drawn.

"You are just accustomed to eating well and often. You look perfectly healthy… well not perfectly." I felt my grin widen. He was sufficiently befuddled, he was still so very young then. But I knew I had to give him his reward soon, lest he feel abused. I reached up and fixed his hair. "Walk with me lover." I put my arm in his and indicated where I wanted to go. I continued to speak as we walked, loving the ring of my voice, loving even more how attentive he was to it.

"There are some things worth waiting for. Some things, like this life. I waited twenty-three years to die but instead there was something much sweeter. You waited how many long years in your father's house for me to come? The Master is still waiting for the perfect hour for the Order of Aurelius to strike. But you know, if you felt the way I do, if you thought for a moment about your true feelings your impatience wouldn't lead you to abuse me."

Did he see the way my eyes twitched at the corners as if I wanted to beam at him? I liked the brusque way he had treated me. I liked all of his ways. "You could ask yourself, 'When have I ever been so happy? If I am indeed happier than I have ever been then why always rush to the next thing? Why not relish? Cherish. Devour slowly, lest the flavors," I was simply taunting him, and loving it, "the nuances might not be fully savored before they are devoured, engulfed by the ever reaching span of time behind us that grows as our future brings us toward some end.' The past gets larger. The future? We'll never know what that extends to."

I reached up to his eyes with my own and demanded a kiss wordlessly. He obliged and it was short because I pulled away, I wanted him to want more, just so I could make him want something else. "Well perhaps _I_ know." I reached my arm out then and opened the door of a house just outside the center of town where his surprises were waiting. The first of many was a white fluttering mass of a girl in a nightgown. I'd tied her wrists together and left her dangling from the rafters so that her toes barely touched the floor. Angelus breathed in her fear, and with his awakened senses heard the others. It was the dormitory of the convent girls. Some ten girls lived in this cottage. Mother Superior was far too far away to help them. I'd killed her just after I rose. But I didn't drink her, I was waiting for a better meal. Angelus however, was not interested in waiting, the time for his gratification was now. The heartbeat of the fifteen year old virgin pounded out a rhythm like a drumbeat for jungle hunters, and he stalked toward her thus. While he drank I ascended to the top of the stairs, and watched from the top as he dropped her in a crumpled heap. He looked up at me with his wicked smile and I beckoned him upwards. He feasted on them, and feasted until he was fairly swollen with their blood.

He tossed the bodies with their comical faces frozen in horror and pain upon the floor and laid himself on one of the narrow beds. His legs dangled hopelessly off of the end. He looked terribly afflicted.

"Darla, I think I might've had too much, I just need to lay here a moment and gather my wits."

"What wits Angelus?" I walked toward him, stepping over broken girls, "What wits do you need when I am here?"

His face was an open display of his mixed feelings, he was uncomfortable, overfilled with the sudden glut of blood in his veins. It pounded through his body, overworking that heart I had stolen for myself, calling me closer. But he wouldn't be able to resist me, he'd be more uncomfortable alone if I left. The masterpiece of his massacre would just be a mess if I left him there drunk on so much blood. I smiled as I threw off my shawl and hat and straddled him on the bed.

"Just relax, and you'll feel better very soon." I unbuttoned his shirt and flung it away and lay on top of him and drank from his hot flesh. He was almost as hot as a human, he had had so much. I started with his neck and from there moved my attentions elsewhere. After a few hours we lay naked and had done our share of defiling that place.

But now that I think of it, I am bored, Lindsey, I don't want to talk about it anymore, let him show you how much of an artist he can be. I prefer to keep the story of the following night to myself, for a while at least.

Ta-ta

Darla


End file.
